"Aw!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with mock pain. "That hurt, you know. But let me tell you something—she said that if you had just accepted her proposal, even for a single night, your life would have been heavenly." His words dripped with venomous satisfaction, as if relishing the confession.
But I didn't let his words linger. I was free now. My legs unshackled, my hands no longer bound. I moved swiftly, following Doctor Ishaan as she retreated into the corner.
Her back hit the wall, and she froze. I could see the fear etched in her trembling frame, even in the suffocating darkness. She looked at me, her eyes wide, her breath shallow.
I stepped closer, my movements deliberate, my presence looming. I stared directly into her eyes, unblinking, unyielding. Though the room was cloaked in shadows, I knew she could feel the weight of my gaze.
And then, I smiled. After the smile faded, I kissed her, amazingly she didn't fight it but welcomed it. Her tongue felt softer and exquisite. I pulled off.
"Thank you." I said in a whisper. She just stared at me.
Her hot, fiery gaze bore into me like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. Yet her body—her stance—looked frozen, locked in some kind of shock.
I couldn't understand it.
Was it fear? Was it anger? Or something deeper—something beyond words?
I cared little. Survival was the only thing that mattered.
Behind me, a soldier still held his ground, unwavering. The chaos that had consumed the prison had not broken his resolve. He had continued to fight, continued to defend his place in this war while the others fell—while the air became thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood.
I could hear his breath, ragged but steady.
I could feel the weight of his presence, the tension of an unspoken decision hanging in the dark.
Was he about to fire? Was he hesitating? Or had he, like me, found the crack in the armor, the moment that could change everything.
In that instant, clarity struck like lightning.
Devilin wasn't just stalling.
He was letting the soldier defending me exhaust his bullets, wear down his armor—so that when the last round was fired, he could take his time. Or maybe, it wasn't even about the fight.
Maybe he just wanted to hear my voice.
The two of us had history.
"Devilishante," I said, my tone casual, probing. "By the way, how's your eye? And your skull?"
Silence.
"Don't call me that!"
A thunderstorm of his voice erupted, raw and furious, drowning the space between us. And with it—an exchange of singing fire shots resumed, slicing through the thick air, ricocheting off the prison walls.
Can you imagine the ecstatic grin on my face?
I found great delight in making him angry. In watching his control slip, his perfect composure shatters into something primal.
He wanted me dead. That much was clear. But more than that—he wanted me broken.
And that was never going to happen.
Then—a chuckle. Low, guttural, drenched in amusement.
"Ah, the artist of destruction still remembers his masterpiece," he mused, his voice curling through the darkness. "I'll admit, you left your mark. But tell me, boy…"
Bootsteps. Slow, deliberate.
"What will you do when I carve my own signature into you?"
My thoughts lingered on Sergeant Siyabonga.
Maybe he was in another timeframe, parallel to ours, living the same kind of life he had on Earth. The cycle never truly ends. There is no redemption in death. If you were a thief, you remain a thief. If you were a judge, the same fate follows. Until—unless—you are born from above.
A philosophy I stood by. A philosophy that meant I was still here for a reason.
Then—gunfire. A surge, more intense than before.
Something had changed.
I could feel it.
The rhythm of the battle had shifted—this wasn't just Devilin and his men anymore. The deafening roar of bullets told me new players had entered the building.
I wasn't supposed to escape. That's why they kept me locked underground. Reduced my chances. Strangled my options.
But chaos?
Chaos rewrites the rules.
"Shit, you damn ninjas!" Devilin's voice exploded into the air, frustration dripping from every syllable. His anger wasn't just at the intruders—it was at his loss of control.
And that, that was something I knew how to exploit.
"Let's move out of this dungeon," I urged, keeping my voice steady despite the whirlwind of chaos above. This was the perfect distraction—our only chance.
Doctor Ishaan inhaled sharply, catching her breath. "Are you insane?" she spat, disbelief thick in her voice. "You want to charge into that madness?"
I met her gaze, unwavering. "If we bypass this chaos, we'll have a chance to live. Our greatest enemy—our deadliest opposition—is distracted. This is our moment."
She still hesitated, fear tightening her frame, but I didn't let up.
"Do you understand?" I pressed, infusing my words with urgency.
We didn't have time for doubt. Either we moved now, or we were as good as dead.
"Okay," she finally conceded. I had proven myself more than once—my judgment was sharp, precise, always cutting through hesitation. By now, she had to understand that.
"Stay close behind," I ordered, taking the lead, my steps swift and calculated. There was no room for hesitation.
Then, I glanced at the soldier who had shielded me through the storm of bullets, his presence a pillar of resistance.
"Are you coming?"
I wasn't sure if it was a challenge or an invitation. Maybe both.
"Yes, I will be right behind you." His voice was steady, unwavering.
"Perfect," I cut in, feeling the weight of reassurance—someone to watch my back.
We moved. Slow. Calculated. Every breath measured, every step precise.
The darkness swallowed us, but instinct guided me. I fired at anything that moved. The soldier—my shield brother—did the same, matching my movements, covering my blind spots.
Bodies dropped. Shadows twisted. The storm of bullets never ceased.
We were cutting through hell itself.
And hell had no mercy.